


Whiskey River

by RandySexKitten



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M, Music, Post-Canon, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 03:46:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RandySexKitten/pseuds/RandySexKitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Xander and Spike discuss music of pain.</p>
<p>Written for the Music of Pain Ficathon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whiskey River

Hot air, barely moving across acres of sweat-dampened skin, felt thick and heavy in his lungs as he took in a deep breath. Smoke stung his eyes as they lighted on the familiar figure sprawled across the grass. On stage, silver braids, shot through with red, flipped back from underneath a red bandana as music weighed down the air that much more. A hoarse voice crackled through the sound system, the words moving like molasses.

_Whiskey River take my mind,_  
Don't let her mem'ry torture me.  
Whiskey River don't run dry,  
You're all I've got, take care of me. 

The crowd screamed in response to the opening twang of the guitar, and the next line was drowned out by the noise of the enthusiastic audience. The full, bottomless tone of the music spoke deeply to the soul of the creature crouched in the field in front of the stage.

Crushing out his cigarette, Spike settled the items in his hand carefully on the ground before sitting behind Xander. Leaning back, he let his hands bear his weight, knees bent, his bare feet flat on the prickling grasses and pressed tightly against Xander’s legs. Xander’s armpits were hot and wet along the top of his thighs as he leaned his large form back into Spike’s loose embrace.

Spike tightened his arm across Xander’s chest, the wetness of his sleeveless t making it seem as though a bucketful of water had been emptied over his head. Xander pressed back, his mouth hot against Spike’s ear as he shouted over the music and the noise. “Did you get it?”

Spike nodded and pressed a kiss to Xander’s temple before picking up one of the bottles resting next to their discarded shoes. Handing Xander a beer, he stretched his legs out along the length of Xander’s, lifting one hand to drink down his own beer, almost purring as the ice-cold liquid seemed to cool him from the inside out. 

Xander dragged the cold bottle over his forehead and empty socket before taking a drink. Flipping his hair back, he sprayed a spattering of sweat across Spike’s face. Grinning, Spike ran his tongue across his lips, taking in Xander’s unique flavor. “Taste good, pet!” he called out before nipping at Xander’s ear.

_I'm drowning in a whiskey river,_  
Bathing my mem'ried mind in the wetness of its soul.  
Feeling the amber current flowin' from my mind.  
And warm an empty heart you left so cold. 

Xander laughed, clear and loud during a pause in the crowd’s screams, and the music was there again. Spike had argued against coming, spending a night out in the wet heat of a Texas night, fighting off a crowd of people didn’t sound like fun to him.

Xander had smiled gently, the skin around both eyes crinkling, and promised that he would protect Spike from the masses. A growl, a pounce, and they were wrestling on the floor of their one room flat, laughter ricocheting off the walls as they played.

Spike leaned back, more interested in staring at the stars than at the scantily dressed women who were riding the shoulders of their lovers, boyfriends and friends as they shouted the words of the song back at their writer.

He smiled as Xander settled back as well, his head resting in the crease of Spike’s thigh. Together, they watched a comet shoot across the sky, so far away that, once upon a time, a young man named William would have called it a falling star.

The sky was deep and clear, the field they sat in situated as it was, far outside of the nearest town. No lights were there to disturb the pure perfection of the night, only the blazing spotlights that were focused on the small figure up on the stage as he and his guitar sang out.

_Whiskey River take my mind,_  
Don't let her mem'ry torture me.  
Whiskey River don't run dry,  
You're all I've got, take care of me. 

“This is what we fought for, Spike.” Xander’s voice was quiet, and without his preternatural hearing, he wouldn’t have caught the words as they filtered through the screams, music and heat. “We fought for the right to sit out in a field in the middle of Texas, listening to music of pain and sweating out every drop of beer that we take in.”

Spike laughed and ran his hands down Xander’s face, just above his missing eye, collecting the wetness there and flicking it away before returning to stroke that soft skin over and over.

“Is it?” he asked.

Xander turned over, wriggling up so that he was hovering over Spike’s prone form. “Is it what?” he prompted.

“Is it music of pain?” Spike asked.

Xander paused and cocked his head, listing to the last refrain of the song. “Not anymore,” he answered thoughtfully. Then his lips were on Spike’s, hot and soft, and the music simply faded away.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> The song, ‘Whiskey River,’ was written and performed by Willie Nelson. Everyone should see Willie perform live at least once in their lives. Seriously, folks.
> 
> For anyone who's never had the pleasure, here's Willie in 1974: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HiVunqkZ1RM


End file.
